


Dreams of Gold

by abp



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:09:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abp/pseuds/abp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras dreams sometimes and it leaves him with a pain he doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enjolras

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened, but it did.  
> For the record, it's not really shippy, but were I to continue it, it would be.

Enjolras woke to the touch of someone stroking his hair. His eyes opened and he took in the golden light filling the room with a few blinks. There was a dark-haired man sitting on the side of his bed, looking down with affection as his fingers carded through Enjolras’ golden curls.

 “Who—“

 The figured shushed him, a smile quirking on his features. “Rest, Apollo.”

 “I’m not—“

 “I know who you are,” he interrupted calmly, keeping up the gentle strokes of his fingers on Enjolras’ scalp. As much as Enjolras wanted to pull away, he felt soothed by the gesture. “Perhaps more than you know yourself.” He seemed a mixture of amused and bitter; Enjolras wanted to ask what he meant but the golden light shifted in the room and the world felt hazy before his eyes.

 “Now rest, my Apollo,” he continued tenderly. “You work yourself to the bone. Rest.”

 The light shifted and swirled again. Enjolras focused on the man—on his wild, dark curls; on his soft, curled smile; on his sad, tired eyes. He was illuminated by the light, almost shining with it.

 “Is this a dream?” The words bubbled off of Enjolras’ lips and he felt the goldenness of the room start to fade, as if the speech had broken something integral to the illusion.

 The man smiled, soft and bitter all at once. “If it is, I only hope it is a good one.”

 A fog swirled around them and Enjolras felt time slipping away—felt the moment shattering slowly. His insides surged with panic. “Who are you?”

 “You will know soon enough,” the man answered cryptically. He stopped his stroking of Enjolras’ hair. “For now, sleep.” He pressed chapped lips to Enjolras’ forehead reverently.

 Enjolras breathed in something rich and earthy. But the man pulled away and the moment was lost. “Don’t—“

 The man shushed him again, stood, then turned and disappeared into the fog with a whispered, “We will meet again soon.”

 He woke with a start, eyes searching wildly for a hint of the dark haired man. “A dream,” he murmured. “Just a dream.” Disappointment weighed inside him, much as he tried to ignore it.

Enjolras closed his eyes again and tried to remember the dream now. Only pieces were clear. A mop of dark curls; a bittersweet smile; a honey-flavored voice; the name _Apollo_.

 He ached to dream it again.

 Instead, he forced himself out of bed.

 Somewhere across the world, an artist painted in golds and drank.


	2. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire dreams and drinks and paints, and it never gets easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So wow, that little one-off Enjolras bit spawned a Grantaire response and then the two accidentally became a prologue for a larger fic that maybe someday I'll finish. (And I'm still not totally happy with this piece but I've been holding on to it for months so, time to set it free!)

He dreamt of his golden Apollo that night. Grantaire didn’t know what it meant—if it meant anything, if _anything_ meant anything—but he painted it anyway. Golds and reds splashed across a canvas, his muse coming to life with every stroke.

Grantaire drank as he painted. It made it easier—it numbed the ache he felt when conjuring the image of his dream. There had been very little to it, there never was much substance, but something hurt deep inside of him to recall the golden curls spread out on red sheets and deep blue eyes and that sloping nose. Something about _that nose_ really did him in. Who had such a fucking perfect nose, for god’s sake?  

A swig of his bottle and a few more strokes helped him clear his head. Eponine would be mad at him, no doubt; she was always mad at him when he drank before breakfast (which meant she was mad fairly often).

“Someday,” she liked to tell him. “You’ll be a famous painter. If you only curb your drinking to live long enough.”

And she would pair it with a pointed glare. (He hated that glare; it made him feel twelve kinds of inadequate).

“Ah, but if I’m dead, think how much _more_ you could sell my art for,” he would grin back at her, always getting Eponine to roll her eyes and sigh at him. “Besides, every artist has his vice.”

He didn’t like to mention that drinking wrapped him in a blanket of comfort—that it protected him. The dreams were usually few and far between, but when he had them he needed alcohol to push back the pain. And in between… well, it had become a crutch. He _did_ like to mention that at least his vice was drinking, not some of the harder drugs he had tried. (And he never mentioned that he avoided those drugs for the even worse visions they gave him; dreams of guns and blood and rain and death.)

The painting came together surprisingly well. It was still rough—he would spend weeks touching up the details and getting that nose right—but it glowed. Grantaire had a new bottle between his lips before he could think much about it or about the Apollo at all.

There was no way he could know a man across oceans, Apollo with his golden blond curls and perfect nose, thought of him too.  Dreamt of him.

There was certainly no way to know how soon their paths would intertwine.


End file.
